


ricochet

by More_night



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Victorian Undertones, mentions of brain splatters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-24 18:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18168761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/More_night/pseuds/More_night
Summary: When Morfin fires a desperate shot at James's feet, James is hit by a ricochet. Missing scene for episode Horrible from Supper (1x07). Canon compliant.





	ricochet

 

Lieutenant Hodgson and two men rolled John Morfin in the blanket taken from the seaman's own bedding.  
  
The men listened to Francis's command with haggard faces; James surveilled them while they went back to their tents. Some men observed the body. Feet shuffled on rocks. Soon, the silence had returned, tense with another death. Every time one of the men died, the burden on their hearts weighed heavier. It grew heavier still now that, for some, the loss meant one less mouth to feed.  
  
Fitzjames let his eyes wander upwards, in this blind sky where no bird flew, where even the quietness of stars was tonight hidden by a thin film of clouds. He found himself sorely missing the green meanders of the aurora borealis he had routinely observed with Henry Le Vesconte on Erebus. When there was still significance to observations of magnetic phenomena.    
  
He started to walk back to his own tent and staggered. Wincing, he steadied himself on a stack of boxed Goldner tins. He felt a distant burn under his left knee. Morfin's bullet had shattered the lantern he held and some piece of it had no doubt grazed his calf. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth around a curse. "James?" Francis called behind him. Uncertain it would support his weight, James didn't set his foot on the ground. Francis came closer. "Let Dr. Goodsir have a look at your leg."  
  
James shook his head. "Tomorrow. Let the man rest."    
  
Francis took hold of his arm, firmly enough to let James know he could rest his full weight on it. "Now."  
  
"It's a ricochet, Francis," James protested. But Francis insisted, and, supporting him, they made their way towards Goodsir's tent.  
  
When they neared the darkened tent, Francis stopped abruptly. The camp around them had returned to its nightly muteness. James leaned closer to the canvas flap door. There was a faint sound. Listening carefully, both officers heard the distinct sound of a man sobbing, overwhelmed by dry whimpers.  
  
The mere echo of another man's grief was enough to make tears surge in James's throat. Francis paused for a moment, letting his eyelids shut. Then, James moving with as much stealth as he could muster on only one foot and leaning on Francis, they retreated towards their own tents.  
  
In Francis's tent, James sat back on the writing desk to rest his leg. "I'll go get Bridgens," Francis said. James nodded absently. His left calf felt warm which, in the circumstances, could only mean the wound was bleeding. He chuckled despondently to himself. In this strange, cold land, warmth, when it did occur, was an anomaly.  
  
Francis returned a moment later, without Bridgens. His brow was knit, but not in a way James had seen before. And he had seen the many shapes of Francis's temper by now. From disillusion and rancor to an improbable softness. "What's happened?" James asked. "What of Bridgens?"  
  
Solace passed on Francis's face and his frown was gone. He waved his hand dismissively. "Your boot. Can you take it off?"  
  
James sat down on the mattress to let Francis take the chair and pulled the leather boot from his foot. The woolen stocking underneath bore a growing red stain above his ankle. He removed stocking and socket both. The skin underneath was pale, save for the spreading bruise on the top of his foot, yellow and mauve - it had appeared almost two weeks ago now - and the neat cut left by the ricocheting projectile. There was no trace of a metal pellet, nor of glass that James could see in the lamp's shivering light. Whatever had scraped the skin was likely no longer in his body.  
  
Reaching for the clean water bassin, Francis broke the thin ice crust that had formed over it and rinsed the skin. After Francis pulled the wet cloth away, the wound bled anew, amply. "Bleeding takes longer to stop now. Hours sometimes," James said, quietly.  
  
"Will it? Stop?" Francis asked.  
  
James nodded. The fatigue in his muscles crawled up into him. Slumberous, he watched Francis bandage his calf tightly with a torn handkerchief. The canvas walls of the Holland tent around them kept the wind out, but not the cold.    
  
"Your have the morning watch at four bells, have you not?" Francis said. They had not brought along the watch bells from Erebus and Terror. Too heavy. To organize the necessary watches on the perimeter, men had been endowed with stopwatches belonging to some of their late crewmates. They called the bells as soundly as a clapper hitting brass. The morning watch had been called a little over twenty minutes ago; it neared the second bell now.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Francis tied the bandage and got to his feet. He laid a hand on James shoulder. The pressure of fingers sent pain through James's bones, but the warmth of Francis's palm went to his heart. His eyes went shut as if to keep the heat in his chest. "I have the forenoon watch at six bells, after the command meeting," Francis said gently. "We will trade. So you may sleep, rest your injury."  
  
"Sleep is an elusive thing these days," James said. Slowly, Francis's hand on his shoulder pushed him back, until he reclined on the mattress. The canvas was so thin and hard it seemed frozen solid.  
  
Francis smiled, not without worry. "Then close your eyes. Rest your mind, if not your body."  
  
And James did. The sound of Morfin's cries echoing in his ears, he was numbly aware of Francis pulling the blanket over him, then the thick fur pelt.

 

 

  
  
When Francis returned from the two-hour watch, the sole sound of his pulling open the tent flap was enough to rouse James from his light sleep. His Second's eyes appeared less lost than they had a few hours ago. But the shirt and sweater did not hide how slender his limbs had grown, nor how dreadfully pale the skin was. James sat and stretched his injured leg before him, grimacing. Holding on Francis's arm, he managed to walk on it decently, straining to hide his limp.  
  
"What news?" James asked, slipping on his boot carefully.  
  
"We did not sight the creature. The sun is fair. And it is warm," Francis said, his eyes shutting closed. "We'll rest here until noon. Bury Morfin. Attempt four miles to midnight."  
  
James nodded. "What was the matter with Bridgens?"  
  
Francis's face became unreadable. He appeared to be toying with thoughts. "He was with Peglar. I did not startle them," he said after a moment.  
  
"Ah." James's silence spoke volumes. "I have known of rumors about Bridgens. But he is a loyal man. And Peglar is an excellent sailor, as you know."  
  
Sitting back on the writing table, Francis stared off into the distance. His exhaustion became so evident on his features, it looked almost like despair.  
  
James spoke again. "Francis, we cannot take it upon ourselves to court martial men, here. Not for this. Not now."  
  
"I had no intention to do so," Francis assured him. His eyes settled back on James at last and looked appeased.  "Seeing them... It reassured me to think that some of the men can find comfort. Warmth. Even here." He cleared his throat. "But they should be more careful. Some of the men might notice."  
  
"I have failed to discern anything peculiar about them. They _are_ cautious," James pointed out.  
  
"Hm," Francis granted.  
  
The camp stirred around them. The air was punctured with the noise of rocks crunching under boots. At a distance, Mr. Diggle's opening tins and discarding them in an empty pile provided a steady sound. Two seamen walked near the tent, their talk loud enough to have woken anyone still sleeping inside.  
  
"At sea, on a ship, there are so very little moments to be alone," James said, reminded of a past occasion when even doors and walls had not kept him from hearing Sir John and Francis biliously arguing. "But out here, there is not even a door to close behind ourselves."  
  
Francis chuckled slightly. "It is the price of command. Never to be alone. Never weak."  
  
"I know."     
  
Francis hesitated for a time. He recalled clearly the occasions when he had retired from Terror's great room into his cabin and held his head into his hands, in silence and alone. In the last months, these moments had grown rarer. As the contents of Erebus and Terror were packed in boxes, then boats, the walls around them had slowly lost their meaning, in more ways than one. He spoke as if the words escaped him. "The very thought of being alone now is uncanny. In this big great nothing. I do not know what I would do now, if not for the men."  
  
"I don't know if I would yell out at the heavens," James said. His mind went back to Dr. Goodsir's incontrollable sobs. The loneliness of the sound clang to him like a smell. Like the smell of powder as Morfin fired his gun, his aim too low to hit anything or anyone. "Or wail. Or lie down and just... wait."  
  
Francis's voice took a dreamy cast. He sighed, rubbed his brow and chuckled. "I would sleep." The light amusement in his voice shook them both from their thoughts.  
  
James straightened and got to his feet. "Speaking of which, you should take the cot while it is warm. Rest for yourself."  
  
"I cannot. I will promote Jopson to third Lieutenant," Francis explained.  
  
"Aye, aye," James approved, softly.  
  
"And now I must shave."  
  
James buttoned the collar of his shirt. He did not recall undoing it. Lifting the tent flap, he found himself staring outside. Some yards before him, where John Morfin had died, the rocks were dyed still in the red and pink of his blood and brains.  
  
Silent, Francis came to stand beside him. James felt the warmth of another body near his just as clearly as he would have felt the one from a fire. "Does it hurt?" Francis asked. "The scurvy. Does it hurt you like his illness hurt Morfin?"  
  
James Fitzjames had not known Francis Crozier since long. But he had done so poignantly enough in the last months that he suspected Francis could read the answer in his gaze. "Goodsir told me to expect it," James said at last. "But not for some time still."  
  
Francis raised a hand and squeezed James's right arm softly, startled again at its litheness. The risen sun made James's pale skin look gilded. Francis swallowed and wondered again about what would have been if he had seen James's valor and heart before, as they deserved to be seen. James broke their shared glance with a brief smile and stepped out.  
  
Later, walking the east perimeter, using an icepick to balance his weight, James found himself thinking of comfort and warmth and love. Perhaps it was the cold of the stone flatlands, perhaps the toils they had known and the ordeals they had faced. Just as these had accentuated courage and sacrifice, it made love more radiant in his tightening chest. Blinking slowly, he thought - once more, behind the safety of his closed lids - of what he could have done differently. Of Francis closing the blanket over him. Of Francis's measured smile as he met his eyes above a map. Of Francis, whom he could now understand in a gaze as vividly as if words were spoken in his mind.  
  
He opened his eyes and all faded.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. They did in fact leave the bells behind. Erebus's watch bell was found on the shipwreck in 2014.  
> 2\. In Simmons's book, Bridgens is "known to be a sodomite", but people leave him alone about it, because he is a precious angel.  
> 3\. Watches and bells are [super complicated](https://www.navy.mil/navydata/questions/bells.html).  
> 4\. I LOVE FRANCIS'S LITTLE HMMS WHEN TALKING WITH JAMES.
> 
> In the last years, I've written mostly Hannibal fic. In Hannibal, it's usually a long way before characters manage to find a way to a clarity of feeling, or some point where they are transparent to themselves. I think it's the reverse in The Terror: these people have lost everything but the purity of their feeling, and are bare to themselves and each other. So it's a radical change for me and I hope I managed to write this okay. :)


End file.
